War Paint
by serpentineinfinity
Summary: [If you want to be metaphorical about it, it's supposed to represent things like luck or speed or strength. Instill a sense of bravery. But I don't think that's all she intended for it to be.] Not even Anna was prepared for the secrets that Elsa could keep hidden behind a painted snowflake. One-shot. Equestrian AU. Anna's POV. Elsanna


**A/n:** Putting this in the beginning because of a couple important notes I have about the story…

Firstly, I don't own Frozen or any of its characters. And this fic is inspired by the song "War Paint" by Kelly Clarkson, which I also do not own. But I do recommend listening to it.

This fic is also rated T, but with a warning for mentions of self-harm—although nothing too in-depth.

And even though it's another equestrian AU (shocker, I know :p ) it's also a much different style from my current main fic, The Perfect Distance. And completely separate, too. I'll have the next chapter of TPD out soon, but I've had the idea for this one-shot for a while and wanted to explore it. So, here it is!

* * *

War Paint

* * *

I knew what it was the moment I saw it.

They used to call it war paint—a tradition of the past. Colorful, symbolic markings of all shapes and sizes that were painted on horses who were sent into battle. If you want to be metaphorical about it, it's supposed to represent things like luck or speed or strength. Instill a sense of bravery. But I don't think that's all she intended for it to be…

Her name is Elsa.

And her horse's name is Dawn.

That pitch-black warmblood mare was born to excel in the show jumping arena, with generations of prestigious, top-ranking champions in her bloodline. Elsa's parents had the horse, with the registered name Break of Dawn, imported here from out of the country—information I know courtesy of occupying myself with sifting through all of the barn owner's records…when I may or may not have been on a requested mission to find a file for another boarder's horse instead. But I couldn't help it, really. Because from the moment she'd arrived at the tiny, family-run farm I'd ridden at since I was old enough to talk, Elsa Arendelle had always intrigued me.

When I first saw her, she looked like she'd stepped right off of one of the pages of an equestrian magazine advertising for the latest styles of Ariat or Tailored Sportsman—looked like a million bucks, with an extravagant horse to boot. Yet she was here, at our little barn in the middle of nowhere. And unlike the boisterous attitude of her parents, she seemed at first to be almost…modest. _Almost_. Because while she didn't let on for hours about how much those new custom made boots and three— _three!_ —leather jumping saddles were really worth, her lack of interest in socializing with the rest of us could definitely come across as arrogance, in an indifferent kind of way.

Elsa would only respond in curt, short sentences whenever everyone made this whole big deal about her fancy show jumping horse. Everyone I knew was infatuated with that mare, constantly talking and exclaiming and questioning and _touching_ —well, that was the last straw. _No one_ laid a hand on that horse. No one except Elsa, her parents, and the barn owner. Which was why after about a month, most people got the hint and stayed out of her way.

Most people.

But not me.

I didn't try to talk to her or anything. I knew that would never go over well. But the fact that she would always come ride that horse on the same days every week—one of those days being right after my Wednesday afternoon lesson—made it extremely difficult for me to just turn my back.

Eventually, it turned into a weekly thing, whether she acknowledged my presence or not. I'd stay later after all of my Wednesday lessons to watch her ride. And I admired how poised she was—how incredibly graceful she looked. I was mesmerized by the way she moved; the way she held her position perfectly in the air when Dawn had her knees flawlessly tucked over the jump that had been raised to three feet; the way that one corner of her mouth would turn upwards slightly while the two of them were airborne—because Elsa Arendelle _never_ smiled; even the way she would pat Dawn's neck longer than necessary upon landing, giving the horse extra affection for her efforts.

I was drawn to Elsa, and I couldn't explain why.

"Just face it, Anna," my best friend Kristoff (and coincidentally the only other student in my lesson) said to me one day, "You like her."

"What the hell, Kris? I do _not_ ," I argued, throwing a punch at his arm that he neatly dodged.

And although he continued to tease me in good fun, sometimes I wondered if he was right. More often than not, I would just brush it aside, but _something_ kept nagging at me. It was small, but persistent. And eventually I came to terms with the fact that maybe he had really seen something that I had missed.

Maybe I did like her.

I had a month to mull it over before I became distracted by thinking about something else. One day as I was warming up for my own lesson, a flash of bright blue caught my attention. And there stood Elsa, leaning on the gate.

At first I was confused.

 _What is she doing here?_

Elsa didn't ride with other people—if anything, she cleared the arena when she came in to school her horse. But she couldn't do that now. I had a lesson and we needed the arena!

But to my surprise she just stood there, both elbows on the top rail of the fence, one foot resting on the lower rail. Every time I would look over at her during the lesson, her eyes were always on me. And I was always the one who looked away not even a moment after—even people who are intriguing can be intimidating. And downright daunting.

Regardless, though, I found myself wanting to impress. I wanted to make sure I was doing everything right, and when my trainer called out, "Wrong canter lead, Anna. Do it again!" it embarrassed me much more than it normally would have.

It became our new thing, I guess. I'd watch her school her horse; she'd watch my lessons. We never talked, never spoke, and shared nothing more than a glance every now and then. And it went on like that for quite some time, until one day in the beginning of winter...she just didn't show up.

It was twelve weeks exactly before she came back again on a Wednesday, and something had obviously changed.

I noticed it, and I knew what it was.

On Dawn's raven black coat was a white snowflake, stretching from the base of her mane to a few inches down her shoulder. It was fairly small compared to the rest of the large horse and barely distinguishable as a snowflake…but that's what it looked like. To me.

 _War paint_.

And Elsa was wearing these gloves—these black riding gloves that I had never seen before.

It was funny, really, because Elsa was always jumping that mare at a higher level than I ever dreamed to be at, yet now here she was, barely even trotting over poles on the ground and a small crossrail with her prestigious horse. And sure, I was aware that even high-end jumpers like Dawn needed breaks from work, and that after, they needed to be eased back into their daily routine. But something was off—and what was the deal with that snowflake?

Dawn broke a sweat by the fifth time they had gone over the jump, and the paint from the snowflake began to run slightly when the sheen became more vivid on the mare's dark velvet coat. Elsa took one look at the little work of art, noticed it smudging, and then turned Dawn out of the arena without even looking back.

 _What is going on?_

I knew what it was, but I wanted to know _why_.

Every single Wednesday after that, Elsa would show up with the same gloves, and the same snowflake on Dawn's shoulder. No one else knew because no one else stayed to watch, and so I was the only one to see it. The only one to notice it. And clearly, the only one who cared.

One day, I reached a point where I couldn't take it any longer. This…this _thing_ that Elsa and I had, on top of whatever this mysterious snowflake was…it was driving me crazy. I was concerned, and worried that something was wrong. Because even after a month, Dawn was still jumping no higher than that same small crossrail. So I did something that I knew, once started, could never be taken back. Something that could destroy whatever it was that we had, although I couldn't quite put a finger on what kind of a relationship it really was. But I _needed_ to know.

Because I cared.

After Elsa had walked Dawn out of the arena and into the mare's stall—the furthest, most isolated stall in the outside barn, and the one most rarely visited—I took all of a minute to collect my thoughts and my courage before marching right down to the fence that enclosed the smaller barn, letting myself in through the gate. Elsa didn't see me until I was standing outside of her horse's open stall door, where the warmblood mare's right side was facing me. Dawn wore a halter with a lead rope that was tied securely to a metal ring on the wooden wall of the stall, and her jet-black form was the only separation between us.

"What do you want?"

The blonde surprised me by speaking first. But her tone was short, clipped.

I looked to the ground, and then back at her ever-narrowing blue eyes, "I…couldn't help but notice what you put on Dawn's shoulder. And how you haven't been jumping as high as you've been. And your gloves…and I just…I don't know. It seemed odd. So I was…curious."

"And please tell me how what I decide to wear and the way I'm handling my horse is any of your concern," Elsa didn't skip a beat and her words were icy.

 _Okay_.

Well—not okay, for starters.

But still...maybe it hadn't been one of my most brilliant ideas to follow her unannounced and ask for information she wasn't ready to give out...

"It's...not, I guess," I answered, attempting to choose my words carefully, "Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be nosy. Like I said, it just seemed odd and—"

"So you think it's weird," Elsa cut me off, "And why is that? I'm a rich, stuck up snob who can do whatever she wants with her freakishly expensive horse, no questions asked. So why should this be the one thing to catch your attention?"

Her response took me a little off guard, but instead of answering either of Elsa's questions, I said, "I don't think that's true."

She seemed to know which part of her statement I was referring to though, saying only, "What do you know about whether it's true or not?"

"More than you," I shot back, a little more than slightly angered now, "All you do is think that everyone sees you like that. All you do is assume. But when someone walks along right in front of you who _doesn't_ see you that way, all you do is write them off as one of the others."

"And please, enlighten me on how you know anything about _that_."

God, I didn't realize how damn _indignant_ she could be! And how blind!

"Because, _I_ am that person! _I'm_ the one who came here concerned about what I saw, and you think I'm just here to be nosy," I started...but her earlier words had really hit a nerve. And my frustration was getting the best of me, which is why suddenly, I was snapping at her with unrestrained sarcasm and turning a blind eye to consequence, "Or is it because, _oh right_ , I forgot, I'm here only to get a closer look at your precious, fancy horse just so I can say I've been near something worth more than my house. Or to see if I can talk you into lending me one of your designer saddles for an upcoming show. I'm here because you have _money_ , and for no other reason than that."

"That's enough," Elsa said pointedly.

But I wasn't finished, and I didn't think I ever would be.

"No, Elsa. It's not enough. Just because you've made this reputation for yourself so that people will stay away from you doesn't mean I'm going to buy it. I want to know what's really going on. I want to know _why_ Elsa. Why do you shut the world out? Why are you shutting _me_ out? What are you so _afraid_ of!?"

"I said _enough_!"

Elsa's raised voice and the commanding tone it held actually made me freeze. Dawn's head shot upwards as the mare was momentarily startled, blocking the blonde's face from my view. But when Dawn decided that all was well and the moment had passed, she lowered her head slightly, just enough for me to be able to see that Elsa had brought one hand to her face. But it wasn't enough to cover her pained expression.

"Elsa, _please_ ," I said, and all of the anger was gone from my voice, "Just tell me what's going on. You can trust me."

"Anna…" the blonde's voice came out timid and unsure.

A brief thought struck me: _she knows my name?_

But shaking it from my mind, I took a step forward, almost standing in the stall. Dawn turned her head and nickered; Elsa remained silent.

"Elsa, it's okay," I told her, "Clearly, it's something that's bothering you. Just let it out, I'm here to listen."

Elsa took one shaky breath, folding a piece of Dawn's mane around her gloved fingers. And she looked at that little dark loop instead of at me as she spoke, "If you really want to know…it happened when I took Dawn to a show at the end of December. It was the biggest one we'd gone to yet, and my parents thought we were ready. So they entered me without even asking, saying that it was about time that Dawn was competing in the rated shows and proving her worth. And everything was going fine when we started the course...until the last jump. It was nothing but a vertical with three poles coming out of a sharp bend, but I thought we were going to fast. I thought we weren't aligned right, even though she wanted to keep cantering forward. I thought I saw the distance right. I thought I was right to hold her back…" Elsa stopped, taking another breath.

I saw a small tear at the corner of her eye, and I don't exactly remember having moved around to Dawn's other side, but suddenly I was now only about a foot away from Elsa, who hadn't yet looked up. It took her another moment before continuing, "I was…wrong. I didn't trust her. And by holding her back and not letting her go, we went _into_ the jump instead of over it. And…and I almost lost her. She hit the damn jump pole, and her shoulder got caught when we crashed, and she needed surgery and I had to _beg_ my parents to go through with it. I had to _beg_ them to keep her alive. They would have rather saved their money by putting her down and buying me a more _capable_ jumper," Elsa said, spitting out the words as if each and every one were venom, "Because she was never going to 'fully recover'. She was never going to be able to jump like that again. They wanted to _save their money_ , yet they spent thousands and thousands of dollars on show outfits and boots and saddles…it was _never_ about Dawn. It was about prestige and fame and reputation. But Dawn…she means _everything_ to me. And it kills me to know that I'm the reason she ended up like this…"

I watched that single tear fall as Elsa closed her eyes, the fine features of her face contorting once more, betraying what I knew was her will to hide her emotions by displaying, again, a look of utter pain. That tear landed right on the painted snowflake, splashing into the middle as a clear drop and then rolling down Dawn's shoulder as a white smear, marring the rest of the mare's perfect black coat with one murky white line.

"So what does the snowflake have to do with all of that?" I asked hesitantly, praying that I wouldn't get any more backlash.

But something told me that Elsa felt too vulnerable already to fight with me again.

Elsa brought one hand up to the paint; smudged it with the heel of her hand. It left a large white mark on her glove. And the part of the snowflake—although a small part—that had been disturbed by the tear gave way almost instantaneously, revealing the tiniest piece of a raised line in Dawn's skin. And then she hesitated as if questioning herself about how much she wanted to show me, her hand hovering just above the mare's unflinching shoulder for what seemed like quite a few minutes...but then she rubbed the rest of the paint away with a bit more effort, and I could see the permanent mark that remained from the accident in its entirety.

"I couldn't stand to look at this scar," Elsa said, "I couldn't stand to look at this damn _scar_ that I knew _I_ was responsible for. And I didn't want anyone else to see it. I didn't want people to question it, because I didn't want to have to be forced to say what had happened."

"But why is it…a snowflake?"

For the first time that afternoon, Elsa's blue eyes, drained completely of their iciness, turned to mine, "Because winter was when I got her. And winter was when I almost lost her. And if I was too weak to look at that scar, I wanted something to remind me that because of one reckless decision, I almost ruined something beautiful. I thought it would…make me stronger."

"War paint," I said knowingly.

Elsa only acknowledged my comment with a small nod.

"So the gloves—"

Before I could even finish, Elsa removed her left glove and held her hand up to Dawn's shoulder. At first I was pleased that she did so without hesitation, but then I realized that it may have been because if she didn't have the courage to show me now, she may never have that courage again...

From one end of her palm to the other was a perfect, horrible line. She left her hand there, scar to scar with Dawn's, as she said, "It was stupid, okay? I thought that it would make up for what I did to her; give myself the punishment I deserved. I know now that it was wrong, but then…I was just too blinded by my hate. My hate for my recklessness. My hate for myself."

It hurt.

 _It hurt me_ to look at that scar and know that Elsa had put it there herself. I wanted to reach out and touch it—take her hand in my own and keep it there.

I didn't.

"Why your hand?" my voice was no more than a whisper.

"Because it was my God damn _hand_ that held her back!" Elsa exclaimed, as if it all made perfect sense.

All I could do was shake my head in awe. How was it that she could twist it all around to make what she did to herself seem _okay_? She said she knew it was wrong, but still! How could she, even for one small moment, turn something as beautiful as the bond she shared with her horse into…a justification to inflict even more pain upon herself?

"So now you know," Elsa said finally, drawing her hand away, "And you can go back to your life, and I'll go back to mine."

" _What_!?" I blurted, "What? Elsa, no!"

How could she just pour her heart out and tell me to leave?

"I really appreciate the fact that you stayed to listen, and that you're concerned, but you really should go now," Elsa said, her tone firm.

"No," I repeated, shaking my head, "I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving until I know you're really okay."

"I can handle this without you, Anna," the iciness that had returned to Elsa's voice was unmistakable.

"But that's just it!" I exclaimed, "You _can't_. You think that these gloves, and this snowflake…that this _war paint_ is going to solve everything? You think that _hiding_ it all is going to help you? You can't _really_ call it war paint. It's not there because you're brave. It's there because you're hiding behind it, Elsa! You're putting on a false sense of bravery, but for what? So that you can keep up your reputation, just to run back here and bury yourself in your shame and regret?"

"And why would _you_ help me?" Elsa shot back levelly, "Why would you, of all people, care?"

"I already told you," I said, lowering my voice, "I don't see you the way everyone else does. I know that there's more to you than that."

"But how do you know that?" Elsa demanded, " _How_ can you see that?"

"Because maybe you're not the only one who hides behind war paint," my voice was barely more than a whisper.

And then Elsa looked at me.

 _Really_ looked at me.

"What are you trying to say?" she asked, the anger gone from her voice and replaced with…genuine curiosity.

I took a breath, "I've been hiding something, too. For a long time. And I was too scared to admit it before. I was too scared to admit it to even myself. But…I like you."

Elsa was silent. Whether she'd seen it coming or not (most likely the latter of the two), the look of shock that spread across her face was enough to make me step backwards. Because...

 _How?_

Just how did I think that telling her telling her something like that would be a good idea? That it would end well, just because it was the truth?

But before I could turn and run from embarrassment, her hand—the one with the scar—reached out to meet my own. It kept me rooted in place and I looked back up into Elsa's eyes, my face mirroring the shocked expression that had been written across hers only moments ago.

Somehow, I didn't imagine her hand to be so…warm.

"That's why," Elsa said.

"What?" I asked, confused by her statement. I was also slightly confused—but mostly pleased—by the fact that her hand was still wrapped around my own.

"That's why you spend every Wednesday watching me ride," Elsa concluded.

I nodded my head; such a small movement that it could have gone unnoticed.

"Okay," Elsa said slowly.

"And?" I asked.

"And what?"

"Is that an okay as in…you're okay with it? Or an okay as in you're still trying to make sense of this and you'd rather me still leave?"

"That's an okay as in I'm okay with it," Elsa said rather decidedly, stepping closer to me, "And I…don't actually want you to leave."

And to say that I was surprised at how quickly her composure had changed would be an understatement; maybe shock or disbelief would have been more appropriate terms. Because it was as if now that I'd admitted how I felt, she'd felt free to take down another one of her walls, too—just not one that I'd been expecting...

Could she really feel the same way about _me_ as I did about her?

She'd made a habit of watching me ride as well. And even though she'd fought me earlier...she'd still opened up to me in ways I'd never thought she would. So was it really such a far-fetched conclusion to come to?

I certainly hoped not.

My heart started to beat a bit faster and I suddenly felt like I couldn't look into her eyes, even though she was looking at me. So instead I took the hand that was in my own, determined to see that scar up close. She stiffened when I uncurled her fingers from the fist that they'd instinctively formed, but she didn't pull away, even as I gently traced the line all the way from one side to the other with one finger.

Aside from the blonde's sharp intake of breath, the only other sound in the small stall was that of Dawn, whose head had turned slightly in Elsa's direction. The mare blew a breath that sounded almost like a content sigh across Elsa's neck, forcefully enough to send the single blonde braid that had previously been over Elsa's shoulder cascading down her back. It was fairly obvious that both horse and rider were incredibly close—as much as Dawn meant to Elsa, it seemed as though Elsa meant just as much to Dawn.

And Elsa meant a lot to me, even if she was only just beginning to realize it.

I held her hand firmly and said, "Elsa, it was an accident and you can't continue to blame yourself. You're stronger than that. You're stronger than this."

"I know," she said, "I know that now. It's just…sometimes we need someone to remind us of that. Sometimes we need someone to take off our war paint, because we're not strong enough to do it ourselves. And I was wrong about what I said before—I do need you, Anna. I was foolish for not seeing that sooner, because you were the only one there for me from the beginning. And I took it for granted."

"Well, now is your second chance," I told her, "I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

And she looked at me for another moment before saying, "Okay."

That single word was spoken in a tone softer than I'd ever heard her use, and she stepped even closer to me than she had been standing before. Her blue eyes fell to my lips, and I'd been _so afraid_ to admit it before...but it was a moment I had been wanting for the longest time.

 _Please kiss me._ _Because_ _all I've ever wanted was to kiss you..._

"Okay," was all I dared to breathe in response, though, barely even managing to choke out the word—barely even believing, still, that any of this could be possible. That Elsa Arendelle could share the same feelings for me as I felt for her, considering how little she'd ever done by means of showing it...

But then my mind was blank, and my eyes only registered her face in front of mine until they slid shut when her lips met my own.

 _War paint_.

Such a silly little thing, really.

But she took off hers, and that kiss was enough to wipe away the rest of mine.


End file.
